I owe Peter Wells an apology. In last week’s column I reported that he allegedly misappropriated the use of a bicycle. Unfortunately, I may have left out the allegedly. My further error was not in thoroughly vetting the reliability of my source (who will remain unnamed. Let’s just call him Bob. Gilkes.) So I offer the following from Peter himself in the form of a retraction/correction:
Yesterday was one of those days that changed 17 times (I counted). Flannel shirt. T-shirt. No shirt (down Lady G.!). Flannel shirt again. And so on. Today however is uniformly fallish. Breezy, crackling, clear. Seaweed and oak mulch. A lovely day; made to order. Not that one can order or put order on the weather. The last remaining bastion of nature’s will.
We used to wait. There was a joy in slowing down. We’d come to Chappy, away from ringing of home phones to the four-digit dialing quiet Island phones. If the phone rang at Grammy’s, someone wanted a ride home or a drink on the porch. Now the ringing (in all its mutations) follows us here. Distance is no longer enough to discourage attachment. The sea does little to abate the connection to that which we leave behind (flee?)
Edgar is missing. Again. Four years have passed since his last sojourn into the wild, but my guess is he made a date with a feline those years ago, and being a cat of his word, he felt obligated to keep his promise. However, he is late in returning. So if you see a medium-haired, gray pussycat in the neighborhood of Wasque, please give Lisa Gruner a call.
My nephew Andy is visiting. Though it may be too late by the time this column hits the newsstands, I’d like to offer his companionship to any family with teenagers. He’s a delightful young man. But what teenager gets up at 6:30 a.m.? That’s Brad time. Quiet time. No talking. I believe my phone number and e-mail are listed above.
You can’t go home again, they say. And you can’t go to Wasque again. At least not the way you left it, or may remember it. The Wasque now is no longer the home we recall. This Wasque will be our children’s and grandchildren’s Wasque, but it no longer belongs to our memory. All the markers have been erased by time and tide. I suppose this is neither good nor bad, happy or sad. But simply what is.
